The Lets Read Podcast - 314: POLICE CAN'T EXPLAIN WHAT HAPPENED IN THIS CAVE | 8 TERRIFYING True Scary Stories / Rain Ambience | EP 300!!!

Episode Date: October 7, 2025

This episode includes narrations of true creepy encounters submitted by normal folks just like yourself. Today you'll experience horrifying stories about crazy exes & wilderness encounters HAVE A STORY TO SUBMIT? [e-mail] FOLLOW ME ON - ►YouTube - https://www.youtube.com/c/letsreadofficial ► Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/letsread.official/ ♫ Music & Cover art: INEKT https://www.youtube.com/@inekt

Hi, I'm Jennifer Yang. I cover health science for the Globe and Mail. It often feels like we're drowning in health information or misinformation. I want to help you make sense of it by bringing you into the hospitals and labs where stories begin. My goal is to demystify research and share what I get to feel every day in this job. The wonder of scientific discovery. If that's journalism you value, head to globe and mail.com slash subscribe. Grab a coffee and discover non-stop action with BudMGM Casino.

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If you have questions or concerns about your gambling or someone close to you, please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. But MGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. We're going to be able to be. I'm a former U.S. Marshal, and I'm a former U.S. Marshal, and I'm currently writing, my autobiography and I'd like to share a dramatization of what might be the most memorable chapter of my career. I'm not an experienced writer by any means, so this may not meet the standards that you're used to, but if you find it in any way compelling and wish to use it in a video, then the

confidence that'll give me is the only compensation I require. You see, it all started late one Sunday evening back in October of 1986. I was sitting at home, watching some highlights on TV when the phone began to ring, and since no one called past 10 p.m. unless it was important, I slid over on the couch and picked it up. It was my SD or supervisory deputy, and all he told me was be at the federal courthouse, 8 a.m. Sharp. You got a task force briefing. I've been a deputy U.S. Marshal out of the Eastern Washington District for coming up on four years by that point. Long enough to know that when something big was brewing, that's exactly how it went down. No info on the target, no info on their location, just a date and time for the briefing. And after hearing

the word task force, I had a reasonably good idea we'd be hunting a priority fugitive. But what I didn't know was that bringing him in would result in one of the strangest and most unsettling incidents of my entire career. The next morning I drove over to the Spokane County Courthouse where I met my SD at the door. He direct me to a conference room on the second floor, and when I stepped inside, there was already half a dozen guys in there wearing a mix of suits, polos, and duty rigs. It was mostly my fellow marshals at first, but I also recognized an FBI special agent from the local field office. And then before the clock ticked over to 8 a.m., the room filled up with half a dozen more marshals out of the Seattle office, a handful of state troopers, and a pair of detectives from the

Spokane PD. After a couple of more minutes, the room began buzzing with small talk and introductions as the caffeine started to kick in, but the chatter ceased immediately when the chief deputy marshal for the district walked in, flanked by an assistant U.S. attorney. The chief deputy marshal walked up to the speaker's stand, set down his coffee, and then got straight down to business. All right, listen up. We got a high priority apprehension in our hands, and this could be a tough one.

He consulted his notes and then continued. Fugitive's name is Raymond, Ridgeway. He's 42 years old, 6 feet 2 inches tall with a lean-billed red hair and dark brown eyes. Noble markings include burn scars to the palms of his hands and multiple tattoos, particular on his hands and fingers. He's wanted on four counts of homicide. Two in Idaho, two in Oregon. And then two counts of murder of a federal officer after he ambushed those two

FBI agents last year. The chief paused, consulting his notes again as a murmur of apprehension swept around the room. All reports suggest Ridgeway will be armed and will have no qualms pulling the trigger on anyone wearing a badge. But do not mistake that man's reputation. He's an animal, but he's as intelligent and cunning as he is unstable. And each of you would do very well to remember that when the time comes to bring him in. The marshals began swapping nervous looks as the chief paused again,

and the assistant U.S. Eternities stepped forward with a stack of folders, passing them out as the chief continued. Intel puts Ridgeway in the Passaeton Wilderness, up near the Canadian border. It's a needle-in-a-hastack situation, but we've managed to narrow things down a little. After a tip from a hunter, the FBI flew a plane over the forests, and the best guest from their analysts is that he's holed up on the Oceola Peak. After instructing someone to dim the lights, the chief flicked a switch on an old overhead projector, and in an instant, the wall behind him lit up with a topographical map of the Pasatan wilderness.

This is our target zone, the chief said, pointing towards Osceola Peak, which had been circled in red. There's a shelf of even ground a few hundred meters from the summit. It's tough to access. There's more than enough cover to keep him hidden. And we think he's sheltering in the largest of the three caves up. there, most probably alone, but he's had time to dig in. Elevations around 8,500 feet, it's got steep approaches from all sides, and on top of all of that, the snows just started. I mean, we've got a small window of opportunity before conditions lock us out altogether.

The chiefs switched off the projector, and after the lights came back on, he motioned toward the men in suits. This is a joint operation. U.S. Marshals might be taking the lead, but we got FBI. for jurisdictional overlap, state troopers for regional support and Spokane's PD detectives for their work on tying Ridgeway to a local safe house that he used last month. We're going in heavy, too. Full tactical long guns and a chopper on standby for extraction or medevac if it goes sideways. And let me make something clear, gentlemen. Our warrant states apprehend or neutralize. That means that are alive. Ridgeway's not slipping through this time.

And at this point, the assistant U.S. attorney chimed in. Legally, you're covered under federal warrant issued out of the Eastern District of Washington, she explained. Murder charges are filed, and the AG's office has greenlit lethal force if he engages. We have probable cause, witness statements, ballistics. He's a clear and present danger, so you're authorized to do what's necessary. Just make sure it's clean. The chief nodded. picking back up where he left off.

We'll stage out of Winthrop, closest town to the wilderness boundary, and we can't risk using air transport, so after we drive out to the forest, it's a 10-mile hump to the base of Osceola, at which point you'll split into teams of three. Alpha's on point for the summit push. Bravo flanks east to cut off escape routes.

Charlie holds the perimeter and provides support if needed. Weather's our clock, meaning we move at first light tomorrow. Any questions? One of the marshals from Seattle spoke up near the back. What happened to those two FBI agents? The chief got a nervous look about him. He looked at the assistant U.S. attorney. She gave him a nod, and then he cleared his throat before giving his answer.

Two agents tracked down Ridgeway's hideout up in the hills outside of Boise. They contacted the H.Q. To report a victim up there, and she didn't want to leave. Like, she was scared to? Another marshal asked. Possibly. The chief replied. All we know is that she physically resisted when the two agents tried to get her out,

which we think set them up to be ambushed. The room stayed silent for a beat, the weight of the task, settling in. The chief then asked if anyone had any more questions. And when his query was met with silence, he gave one sharp clap. good he said gear up brief your teams and go get some rest before tomorrow i want you all in winthrop at dawn and ready to go the next morning we rolled out at dawn a convoy of black SUVs and a couple of state trooper trucks cutting through the early morning haze the drive started at highway 20 blacktop was still wet from overnight rain with the north cascades looming large ahead of us and after

hour, our tires ground against loose rock as we turned off onto a gravel service road. The landscape was a mix of wet bark and fallen leaves. The road narrowed fast, hemming us in with dense stands of pine and fir and mud sucking at the wheels as we climbed. At the 20 mile mark, the road ended a trailhead just a dirt clearing with a rusted sign. We parked and stepped out onto the half-frozen slush. Osceola Park was visible now. Rocks. streaked with snow, forming a jagged shadow against the overcast sky. We went over the plan one last time, then the team splits. Alpha gearing up with rifles and packs, Bravo and Charlie doing the same,

and then fanning out with the radios crackling as the wind's bit and he exposed skin. And that hike took hours. The trail started flat. This muddy mess through a valley floor littered with down branches and puddles, but it soon pitched up as switchback's car. their way upward through the thick timber. The frost grew more pronounced as we climbed from a dusting to a solid crunching underfoot. Sweat beated around my temples despite the cold and our breath puffed out in clouds as the trees thin near the timber line, giving way to open

slopes of shale and ice-crusted grass. Oceola's summit loomed closer. Its top shrouded in low clouds and by midday we hit the base. Our legs were burning as the peak's steep face stared us down. I think I was too occupied looking upward to notice because it was a member of my team that first pointed it out to the rest of us, and then once he did, we couldn't look at anything else. At first, when he pointed towards the little white and brown bird lying dead on the ground, I wondered why he brought it to my attention. But then I saw another dead bird just a few yards away, and then another, and another. And before long, the whole team was checking out what must have been two dozen dead birds and squirrels, all lying at seemingly random spots on the

forest floor. They didn't look half-eaten or display any other kinds of damage, nor was there much in the way of decomposition. It was just like they'd drop down dead. As one of my team started asking what might have killed all those animals, I'd pulled the radio from my vest, hitting the transmit button as the wind began to pick up. Bravo, this is Alpha Lead. You've seen anything weird around your position? Over. A beat passed, and the Bravo's voice crackled back. Very tense, but they were steady.

Alpha, this is Bravo Lead. We got a bunch of dead birds and squirrels. A couple of marmots, too, all over the east flank. No blood on them. It's like they just sort of fell out of the sky. You see anything like that over there? Over? And a glance at the nearest corpse, still fresh among the frost and felt a very deep unease settle on my gut. Exact situation here, I said.

There's dozens of them, all the way up the west slope. Looks like they died fast, no marks. Any theories? Over. Another pause, but longer this time and the radio came back. Negative alpha, no clue. We flagged it to Charlie, but orders from Chief are to keep. pushing. Priority is the summit. Ridgway's up there and we're not stopping for this. You good to

move? Over. I look back at my team. Their confidence draining by the second as their breath clouded in the cold and the dead stretched all around us, a grim carpet leading toward the shrouded peak. But Bravo was right. We had to keep moving. Roger that, Bravo. I replied. We're good. Moving up now. Keep us posted if Charlie gets anything. I clip the radio back onto my vest, nodding to the team. Summit's still to play. Eyes sharp, weapons hot. Let's go. We started climbing again. Boots crunching through snow and over the small, stiff bodies, the unease settling deeper with every step toward Oceola's peak. We crested the final rise,

boots sinking into a thin crust of snow and hit the stretch of flat ground that we've been told of not far from Osceola's summit. The wind eased here, blocked by a low ridge of rock while the clouds hung thick. Ahead of us was the opening to a cave, a jagged gash in the rock about ten feet wide and half hidden by a slab of granite. It was the only real shelter up there, the obvious spot for ridgeway to hole up. The other two caves were little more than alcoves. We spread out, rifles raised, moving low and quiet towards the cave's entrance.

I signaled to hold positions as shapes emerged from the east. It was Charlie, and Bravo would be close by too. Charlie's team leader and I nodded to one another in acknowledgement, and then we fanned out to cover the cave. We advanced together, this tight semi-circle closing in. No noise came from the mouth of the cave. It was just the crunch of our steps and the sound of the wind whistling across the peak. At the entrance, I flicked on my flashlight,

the beam cutting through the dark as we stepped inside. Charlie's light joined ours, casting shadows against the cave walls. The cave wasn't deep. It was maybe 30 feet at most, but it narrowed fast. Inside, the air was damp, cold, and smelled of something faintly sour. We advanced carefully, scanning every nook and crevice with our flashlights, and then about ten paces in. We saw him.

It was Ridgeway, sitting with his back to us at the Cave Dave's deepest point, and we couldn't see his face, but we knew it was him. Raymond Ridgeway, U.S. Marshals, lay down with your hands behind your back. I shouted, voice bouncing off the walls. He didn't turn. He didn't even flinch. He simply rocked back and forth, slow and rhythmic, looking like his head was bowed. He was leaner than the photos, but I could see that matted red hair plastered over the back of his head. Charlie's team leader began barking the same sharp overlapping command as the team's lights remain pinned on the fugitive. Ridgeway! Down! Now!

He yelled while edging closer, but there was still no reaction from this guy. Instead, he just kept rocking back and forth like he couldn't hear us over the noise inside his own head. The deputy to my left, a guy named Torres, moved forward, allowing his rifle to hang from its sling and then reach for Ridgeway's shoulder. Come on, asshole, he said. Let's... But Torres didn't say another word, because the moment he laid a hand on Raymond Ridgeway, his body locked up like he'd been hit with a live wire.

He gasped, eyes wide, and then collapsed to the ground hard. I remember watching, and complete shock and horror as his arms jerked in spasms, his boots scrapping the dirt as spit foam near the corner of his mouth. Everyone was frozen, weapons still trained on this guy, yet mere moments after Tora's hit the floor. Ridgway's body suddenly jerked like he'd been jolted awake, and then his head whipped around. His eyes were wild with confusion as they darted between us.

More demands for the fugitive surrender echoed around the cave at that point, but as this guy realized what was happening, he just smiled. Down! Hands behind your back! I snapped, and this time he obeyed, flattening out, but with that smile still on his face. We zip-tied him fast, dragging him up as Charlie's medic rushed over to Torres. He was out cold, breathing shallow with his pulse racing. The medic said that it looked like some kind of seizure, but there was a chance that it could be worse. Charlie's chopper was inbound within 20 minutes.

Torres got strapped to a stretcher, still unconscious and was lifted out. with the medic and ridgeway went next he was cuffed and just staring blankly as we loaded him up but still he looked like he was smiling we cleared the cave and the job was done but the dead birds and the spasms the unanswered questions hung over us as we hike back down those slopes we linked up with the other teams and debriefed at winthrop by nightfall and we had questions but the dead animals took a back seat to Torah's condition. We were told the medics had to put him in a coma to stop the seizures, and he didn't wake up for a week, but when he did, he remembered nothing. Last thing in his head was driving out to Pasaden, and the whole raid had been wiped clean from his memory.

Ridgeway was in custody, locked up in pending trial, but he refused to talk. He just sat there in his cell rocking back and forth, just like he'd done up in that cave. And after the raid, the dead birds and Torres' collapse gradually faded into the background noise of the case. The warrant execution report barely mentioned the birds, and they were relegated to a single line buried in the details. Numerous deceased wildlife observed near suspect's location, likely killed for food. Investigators shrugged it off. They said Ridgeway must have been hunting them. No one bothered to test the bodies for toxins or disease, and there were no autopsies or samples. It was all too much hassle for a side note, and with Ridgeway and Cuffs, the focus

shifted to building a murder case against him. The birds stayed where they fell, rotting on Osceola Peak, completely forgotten. And Torres' seizures got a similar brush off. The medical report caught at a sudden neurological event, either an epileptic fit or a stress-induced collapse. Doctors chalked it up to a one-in-a-million fluke that just so happened to hit when he touched ridgeway. Coincidence, they insisted, nothing more. No link to the cave, the birds, or anything else up there. Torres woke up from his coma after week with no memory of anything, as I said, and the service gave him desk duty for a while, and then he transferred out, and we never heard from him again. Nothing that strange ever crossed my path after that. I definitely went through way

worse things, be they shootouts, ambushes, or fugitives who fought to the bitter and bloody end, but nothing which had that same eerie edge to it. No unexplained dead animals piling up, no one dropping into spasms for no reason, just the usual controlled chaos of the job. I've had a long time to process what happened too, almost 40 years in fact, but still, it just gnaws at me. The dead birds, Torres' so-called medical event,

Ridgeway rocking like he was somewhere else, none of it adds up, and no one seemed to care enough to make it make sense. I've run it over in my head a hundred times, the sour smell in that cave, the way those critters just dropped. I know I should just let it go, but leaving it all unexplained feels like leaving a loaded gun on the table. I don't buy the easy answers, sustenance, coincidence, something was off up there and I'll never know what. And that's the part that sticks with me, the loose end that I can't seem to shake, and why that whole thing became one of the most significant incidents of my whole career. It made me realize that the same agencies that protect us from dangerous people also protect us from dangerous truths.

I grew up hearing the story of Elizabeth Talbot, or Lizzie, as everyone called her, from my grandmother, who first heard the story from her father, who was Lizzie's only son. It's a tale that's been handed down through our family for nearly a hundred years now, told over kitchen tables and porch swings, and it's always had a certain kind of quiet weight to it. It isn't just a story about survival. It's about how my great-grandmother came to be and how Lizzie, A woman I never met, carved out a life for herself against odds that would have broke most others. I've pieced it together over the years, filling in the gaps with details both learned and imagined.

So as I remember it, this is the tale of poor Lizzie Talbot. Back in 1890, a 22-year-old Lizzie was living just outside Chattanooga, Tennessee, in a small clapboard house with a tin roof that rattled whenever the wind blew too hard. that spring she'd married henry higgins a man with broad shoulders and an infectious laugh who worked at the lumber mill down by the river they weren't wealthy by any means but they had enough a little garden out back a couple of chickens and a bed that they shared under a quilt lizzie's mother had sown i picture her standing by the stove stirring a pot of beans as henry arrives home from work his boots heavy on the floorboards his clothes smelling of sawdust and sweat and they were happy and had a bright future of family fondness to look forward to. Then one afternoon in the summer of 1900, everything changed. Henry was at the mill, hauling logs when a chain suddenly snapped, and a load of timber came crashing down on him.

One of the beams caught him across the head, cracking his head open. His co-workers carried him to a doctor on a stretcher, blood soaking through the bandage they'd wrapped around a skull, and the doctor said he'd do everything possible, but promised nothing. Lizzie sat by her husband's side for days, wiping Henry's forehead with a damp cloth while praying for him to wake up.

He did eventually, but the man who opened his eyes wasn't the same one she'd married. The doctors said that he'd heal, that the swelling would go down, but they didn't warn her about the rest, how the injury had cracked something deeper than bone. At first, Lizzie noticed only the subtle changes in her husband, But after a while, they became very pronounced.

He'd snap at her over little things, like burnt biscuits or a chair left out of place. And whenever Lizzie made him mad, Henry's hands would clench into fists, and he'd paced the house like a caged dog, barking at her failures. He started drinking a lot more and would head out to taverns or saloons until the wee small hours of the morning. Then there were the nights when he didn't come home at all. Lizzie would lie awake, listening to the crickets outside wondering where Henry had gotten to. Then when he finally did stumble home, reeking of whiskey and cheap perfume, he'd shove her against the wall by her throat if she asked too many questions.

One night, he grabbed her by the hair, then tore her head back with his eyes wild and empty, saying, You don't owe me, woman, and his breath was hot in her face. She clawed at his hands, gasping until he let go and, stormed out, and that was the first time that she locked the bedroom door, her heart pounding like it was trying to escape through her rib cage. Lizzie prayed hard for things to get better and for her husband's mind to heal, but over time, he only got worse. And to his wife's horror, Henry started robbing folks like a regular old road agent. First, the drunk staggering out of saloons, and then the shopkeepers on the edge of town as they closed up for the night, and word spread fast.

Henry Higgins wasn't just a mean drunk anymore. He was downright dangerous. He'd come home with blood on his knuckles and a sack of stolen goods, laughing like it was all just some game. The town's folks also whispered about the woman he'd been seen with, girls from the rough side of town, who'd take a man's money and not ask his name. Lizzie heard it all, with each and every story cutting deeper than the last.

She'd remember living with the man that she'd loved, and now she was living with a stranger. and one who terrified her. The breaking point came one dark, frigid evening in the winter of 1901. Henry came crashing through the door, his coat torn, his face smeared with dirt. He was drunk. He'd been in a fight and he was foaming at the mouth with anger. Where's the goddamn supper woman, he bellowed, kicking over a chair?

Lizzie tried to calm him down, but at the mere inference that her husband might be the cause of his own troubles, he lunged at her. Henry grabbed Lizzie by the hair, then slammed her head against the wall. Pain exploded behind her eyes before she crumpled to the floor. She looked up to see that Henry was towering over her, his heavy boots just inches from her face, and for a moment, she thought that he was going to kill her. He didn't. Henry simply spat on the floor next to his bleeding wife and then slammed the door shut on his way out of the room. Lizzie said that she'd lay there, tasting blood and realized,

that she had to run. She didn't have much, just a few dresses, a shawl, and a handful of coins that she'd hidden in a tin under the bed. Then she waited until dawn, when Henry would be passed out somewhere and then slipped out of the back of the house. She walked into her feet, were blistered and bleeding, hitching rides on wagons and begging for scraps from strangers. She didn't care where she was going.

It just needed to be far away from Henry. Weeks later, half-starved and shivering, she stumbled into Dahar River, North Carolina, a quiet little town with a river running through it and a church up on a nearby hill. And that's where she met Benjamin Heckler. Ben was the pastor at the church, a man in his 30s with kind eyes and a voice that carried when he preached. He found Lizzie slumped on the steps one Sunday morning, her dress filthy, her hands trembling. He didn't ask any questions. just brought her inside, gave her a blanket and set a bowl of soup in front of her.

She told him her story over time, in bits and pieces, and he listened without judgment. He let her stay in a spare room at the parsonage, and before long, she was helping him with mending hymnals and sweeping the floors. They grew close, closer than they meant to, and for a while, both tried to ignore what was growing between them. But Lizzie was still married, and Benjamin wouldn't cross that line. I can't be that man, he once told her, and his voice was firm but soft, and she understood, even if hurt, so she waited, and she fought. She wrote letters to lawyers, secured affidavits from folks back in Chattanooga, and tracked down witnesses who swore Henry had beaten her and betrayed her vows. It took years, but finally, in the early spring of 1902,

a judge finally granted Lizzie an annulment, declaring her marriage, to Henry Nolen Void, and she was free. That summer, Lizzie and Benjamin married in the church where they'd first met. It was a small wedding, just a few townsfolk, a wooden cross in the wall, and vows that they meant with every word. Then a year later, in 1903, she gave birth to a boy named Samuel. He was a quiet baby with his father's dark hair and his mother's bright blue eyes, and for a while, life was good.

They had a little house near the river with a porch where Lizzie would sit and watch Samuel play in the yard. Benjamin would come home from the church, kiss her forehead, and they'd eat supper together. It was their own little slice of heaven. But then, in the fall of 1905, disaster struck. I picture Lizzie in the kitchen when she heard the horses, the sound of hooves pounding the dirt growing louder and louder until it stopped right outside her home. She wiped her hands on her apron and stepped towards the window to pull back the curtains. There were six men, maybe seven, all on horseback, their faces shadowed by the wide brims on their hats. One of them swung down from his horse, his boots hitting the ground, and then Lizzie heard his voice,

rough and familiar like a knife dragged across stone. Lizzie, you in there, woman. At the sound of her name, her stomach dropped. She'd never forgotten that voice, the way it would turn from a laugh to a growl and a heartbeat. It was her ex-husband, Henry Higgins. Lizzie backed away from the window, her hands shaking so bad that she knocked a plate off the table. It shattered on the floor, and Little Samuel started crying in the next room. The men outside laughed, and Henry shouted again,

Come out, woman, I've been looking for you. The door rattled as someone pounded on it, and Lizzie froze. She could hear the clink of spurs, the creak of leather, the low mutter of the posse. They weren't here to talk. They were here to take her, or worse. Her mind raced back to Chattanooga, to the nights that she'd cowered under Henry's fists, and now he was here, with men who'd shoot first and ask questions later. The wall seemed to close in, her chest tightened until she could barely breathe,

and then suddenly her current husband burst into the room. room. Benjamin's face was pale but determined. He grabbed a shotgun from the corner, the one he kept for hunting and took cover near a window. Lizzie, he said, his voice low and urgent, take Samuel, and when I say, you run out the back. She started to argue, but he cut her off. Wait till you hear the shot. They'll be distracted. Then run, and don't look back. Lizzie nodded, tears stinging her eyes, and scooped Samuel from his crib. The boy whimpered, clutching her neck, and then she crept to the back door to wait for her husband's signal. Benjamin shouldered his shotgun, parting the curtains just enough to aim while outside. Henry was pacing.

You can't hide forever, Lizzie. He fired a pistol in the air, the crack splitting the night. Benjamin looked at her, his eyes steady despite the fear in them. I love you, Lizzie, he said. And then after that, he pulled the trigger. The shotgun roared, the glass shattered, and Henry Higgins fell down dead. The posse yelled, guns firing wildly, while Lizzie bolted out the back. She ran as fast as she could, her baby bouncing in her arms as her bare feet pounded against the cold ground, and she didn't stop to see if Benjamin was alive.

She couldn't. There was no time. She just kept going through the trees, down to the river, until the sounds of gunfire behind her faded. With nothing but her son in the clothes on her back, she made her way north, traveling by foot and kindness until she reached Richmond, Virginia. It was a much bigger burb than Haw River, a city she and her boy could disappear in. She found work sewing in a factory, rented a tiny room above a bakery, and made damn sure her young son. got his education. Samuel grew up there, a boy who never knew his father, but carried that same quiet strength. Lizzie raised him alone, telling him stories of Benjamin's courage and how he'd save both of their lives. Elizabeth Talbot ended up passing away peacefully in her sleep during the year 1940. Samuel was a man by then, with a family of his own, and when she was ready, they passed the story down to my grandmother, who told it to me when I was a kid, sitting up on her life.

It's been almost a hundred years since that night in Haw River, and all those involved have long since passed. But the story of Lizzie's fear, Benjamin's sacrifice in the life they built before it all fell apart, will live forever. I think about her sometimes, running through the dark with my great-grandfather in her arms, and I wonder where she found the will to keep going. Maybe it was a love, or maybe it was just stubbornness. Either way, that's why I'm sitting here. here now, typing this out, and keeping her story alive for another generation. My name's Cal. I'm a long-time listener, and I'm a forestry technician at the Tongass National Forest up in Alaska. I've been out here for six years now, and let me tell you, it's made for one heck of a place to work.

It's beautiful, brutal, generous, and unforgiving all at the same time. But it's also the only place I've ever experienced genuine, debilitating terror. I didn't set out to be a forestry tech, not originally. But having grown up in northern Minnesota, I spent most of my spare time outdoors, either fishing or hiking with my dad. He was a logger, and we had the woods right there on our doorstep. So from a very early age, I learned stuff like how to spot a healthy tree from a sick one, how to listen to the wind, or how to know when a storm was coming. I like the quiet of it.

How walking in the woods always felt like an adventure, and I always thought it'd be the coolest thing in the world to have a job where that's all you ever did. And after high school, I bounced around poorly paying jobs, but all they did was make me realize that I wanted something which kept me outside, away from cities and noise. I went to community college, got an associate's degree in natural resources, and then landed a seasonal gig with the U.S. Forest Service in Minnesota. Alaska wasn't part of the plan until a buddy from that first job told me about openings in the Tongass. He said it was a great deal. remote, rugged, nothing like the tame forest back home. So I applied, and then when I got the offer, I packed my truck and drove up through Canada. It took me five days to reach Catcha Can, where I caught a float plane to my first posting,

and then after seeing the place from the air, I was hooked. The scale of the Tongass blew me away. It's 17 million acres of mountains and temperate rainforest, bigger than some U.S. states even. I signed on full-time after that first season, and even after the experience I'm about to tell you, I still don't regret coming here, not entirely anyway. Out here, it's just you in the trees, all the spruce, hemlock, cedar, all stretching up a hundred feet or more. It's my job to monitor timber stands, check for disease, mark trees for harvest, and sometimes just walk the trails to make sure everything's holding together.

I've got a little cabin near the ranger station. Nothing fancy, but it's mine. And then after a day in the field, I'll sit on the porch with the beer and watch the mist just roll in off the water. It's a good life, with a kind of piece that you can't find anywhere else. What I hate, though, is the weather. It rains around 200 days a year in the Tongass, and not just a little light drizzle either. The drops come down in sheets, cold and relentless, meaning that you're a lot of the tangus.

meaning that you're almost constantly soaked through during the wetter months, no matter how waterproof your gear claims to be. And winters are worse. Short days, long nights, and the wind absolutely cuts you. But then there's also the isolation. I don't mind being alone. But weeks can go by without seeing another person, and that wears on you. The nearest town's a boat right away, and even then, it's just a handful of stores and one bar.

Sometimes I'll catch myself talking to myself just to hear a voice, and as much as that concerns me, the isolation isn't even close to the worst part of being out here. It was late August of last year, and although the days were starting to shrink, it was still light out past 8 p.m. I was out on a routine survey, around 12 miles north of the ranger station, deep in a section of old growth forest that hadn't seen any logging in years. the terrain up there can get real tough with steep slopes thick underbrush and streams cutting through just about everywhere which makes the ground incredibly uneven i've been out since dawn marking trees and taking soil samples and i was exhausted my pack was heavy with gear and my boots were caked with mud so i figured that i'd finish up by a little creek that i knew where i could eat a sandwich, wash off my boots, and then head back to the station before dark.

I remember sitting on a fallen log by the creek, unwrapping my food with my head in the clouds when a sudden sound brought me straight back down to earth. At first I thought it was a bear, and as much as they can be a threat, you get used to them out there. They're mostly black bears, sometimes browns, and they tend to move quiet and not bother anyone unless they're startled. But this wasn't quiet. It was a heavy, deliberate sound, like something massive pushing through the woods, whole branches

sounded like they were snapping, very thick ones too, not just twigs. And I froze, my sandwich halfway to my mouth and just listened. The noise was coming from maybe 50 yards upstream, hidden by a cluster of spruce and ferns, and I couldn't see anything, but I could hear it clear as day. Something crunching and thudding, moving slow but steady. I roughly re-wrapped my sandwich and grab my bear spray as fast as I could, planning on scaring it off if it got too close. Bears usually bolt when you yell, so the first thing I did was stand up and shout, You didn't smell me yet, Mama Bear.

But the sound didn't stop. If anything, it got louder and closer, and I very quickly realized this wasn't a bear. I've heard bears move, dozens of them over the years, but this was different. It was deeper, heavier, and the rhythm was off too. It wasn't the rolling gate of a four-legged animal. It was more like something upright, something that didn't care about being quiet. When the thought occurred to me that I wasn't dealing with your average bear, I remember how my stomach dropped. I backed up a step, scanning the woods.

Now, the creek was gurgling behind me and the ground was moving beneath my feet, but all I could focus on was that sound. the snap thud, snap thud. It was maybe 70 yards away now, still out of sight. So I yelled again louder that time, saying, hey, get the hell out of here. I didn't get anything in response. No growl, no huff, no sign had even heard me, just that steady, unstoppable movement. My heart was thumping in my chest and my hands were shaking so bad that I almost dropped the spray. I've been around wild animals my whole career. Moose, wolves, even a pissed-off mountain line once in Minnesota, but nothing ever felt like that.

And then, the smell hit me. It wasn't like anything I'd smelled before. No bear musk, no wet fur, not even rot. It was sharp, almost metallic mixed with something sour, like sweat gone bad. And when it rolled over me with the breeze, I gagged. and that's when the panic started to really rise in my chest. I couldn't see it, but I knew it was big, too big.

A moose might snap branches, but they're clumsy. They're loud in a different way. This sounded almost controlled. I grabbed my pack and started backing down the trail, keeping my eyes on the trees upstream, and the noise kept coming. Closer now, maybe 30 to 40 yards at the most. I couldn't tell if it was following me or just moving parallel, but it didn't stop.

and so I turned and ran. I'm not proud of it, but I bolted down that trail like a kid's scared of the dark, and I didn't stop until I put a good half mile between me and the creek. When I finally slowed, gasping for air, the sound was gone. No snaps or thuds, just the usual hum of the forest. I stood there, bent over with my hands on my knees trying to make sense of everything. What the hell was that? It wasn't a bear.

Too big and too steady. A person, maybe, but that's not a chance, not out there, not that deep. I'd have seen tracks, heard a voice, or something, but there was nothing but that noise and that smell. I made it back to that station after dark, rattled and soaked with sweat, and I tried to calm myself down, but I could only do so before my mind started racing again. I barely slept that night. Every creek of the cabin had me sitting up and listening, and then as I tried to go back to sleep, I kept replaying what had happened in my head, trying to figure out what I'd heard.

The size of it didn't add up. Bears don't move like that, like I said. And by morning, I was half convinced I'd imagined everything. Maybe I'd been out too long, gotten dehydrated, and just let my mind play tricks. But I could still hear those snaps and feel that faint tremor in the ground. It was real. I knew it. A couple of days later, I told Jim, one of the other texts. He's been in the Tongass way longer than me, a grizzled veteran who's seen it all. Storms, bear attacks, lost hikers, you name it, Jim's got the t-shirt.

We were at the station, splitting wood for the stove, and I just blurted out. I heard something out there, Jim. Something big. Bigger than it should have been. And I told him the whole story, the sound, the smell, how it didn't seem to react to anything I yelled. He listened, quieted at first. first, chopping away at his logs, and when I finished, he set the axe down and turned to me with a very stern look on his face. And it wasn't just disbelief for curiosity. It was almost

pity, mixed with something nervous, like he thought I was losing it. He asked if I was sure that I wasn't hearing things and said long days did that to a man. I said maybe, but I could tell he didn't buy it. He kept glancing at me after that, like he was waiting. for me to crack. I forced to laugh and then told him maybe I was just overtired. He nodded, but the look didn't go away. And that's why I decided to shut up about it. No point in making people think that I'm nuts. And I try telling myself that it was nothing. Overwork, imagination, whatever. But I can't lie to myself. I just can't. I haven't gone anywhere near that creek since. I stick to the trails closer to the station now and it's just easier that way. The job

Still the same. The rain, the trees, the endless quiet, but something's different now. I catch myself listening harder, waiting to hear that sound again, and I haven't heard it since, and I hope I never do. But obviously, I'll never forget it either. Whatever it was, I think that it's still out there moving through those woods, and although I can't stop myself from thinking about it, I'm not sure I want to know what it is. I met him on a dating app. His name was Ryan, and back then, I thought he was everything I'd been looking for. His profile picture showed him leaning against a motorcycle.

wearing a leather jacket and a handsome smile that gave me butterflies. We matched and within a day he'd sent me a message. Hey, you seem cool. Coffee some time? I was 24, working a steady job at a marketing firm and was super tired of the flaky guys that I've been matching with. Ryan seemed different. Our first date was at a small cafe downtown. He showed up on time, ordered a black coffee and asked me about my life. My job, my family, dog Milo. He listened. He really listened. He told me he worked as a mechanic, loved fixing things, and had his sister that he was close to. And by the end of the night, he walked me to my car and kissed me.

It was soft, quick, and respectful. And I drove home grinning like an idiot. And for the first few months, he was perfect. He texted me good morning, bring me some takeout food when I was stuck late at work and surprised me with little things. A keychain shaped of the same breed of dog Milo was, a playlist that he'd made of songs that I mentioned liking. And we'd spend weekends together, sprawled out on my couch watching movies or driving out to the coast just to walk along the beach. He'd hold my hand, his grip firm but warm and I'd think to myself, this is it. This is what it's supposed to feel like. But then around month six, things started to shift. It was small at first. He'd ask where I was going if I was heading out with friends, and his

tone was very casual, but his eyes set a different story. Just curious, he'd say, but it didn't feel curious. It felt like he was keeping tabs. And then he started showing up unannounced. I'd be at a bar with co-workers, laughing over some drinks, and I'd look up to see him standing by the door, watching me. Thought I'd surprise you, he said one time, and he'd have that same handsome smile. but that smile didn't reach his eyes anymore. They seemed cold. And by month 8th, the possessiveness turned into something much more darker. We'd argue over nothing, like me not texting him back fast enough, and his voice would get low and tight like he was holding something back. One night I told him I needed space after he blew up because I'd gone to dinner with a male

co-worker. He grabbed my wrist. Not hard enough to bruise it, but enough to make me freeze. get to walk away from me, he said, and I yanked my arm free and locked myself in the bathroom until he left. In the next day, he sent flowers with a note that said, I'm sorry. I just love you too much. I wanted to believe him, but the pit in my stomach told me otherwise, and I ended it at nine months. We were at my apartment and I'd rehearsed the words all day. Brian, this isn't working, I'm done. And when I said it, his face went blank, like a switch flipped. And he stared at me, silent for a full minute. And then he laughed and said, you don't mean that. And when I told him I did, he stood up, grabbed his jacket and walked out without another word. And I locked the door behind

him. My hands were shaking and hoped that that was just the end of things. It wasn't. And the text started the next day. I miss you. You're making a mistake. We're not over. I ignored them, deleted them, blocked his number, but then he'd use a different one. I'd find notes on my car windshield saying things like talk to me, written in his sort of jagged handwriting. And once I came home to a single rose on my doorstep and the pedals were crushed like he'd been gripping it too hard, and I threw it in the trash and double-checked my locks. But then, he started showing up while I was at home or at work or buying groceries. I'd spot him across the street from my office leaning against his motorcycles staring up at my window. And I'd see him at the grocery

store, at the gym, at the park where I walked Milo, always at a distance and always watching. I'd tell him to leave me alone, but he'd just sort of smile and shake his head, walking away. After a while, even my co-workers noticed. My boss pulled me aside one day and asked if I was okay. I lied and said yes, but I wasn't. I stopped going out unless I had to. I started parking closer to my building, keeping my keys between my fingers when I walked to my car. And then the threats came next.

He called from these blocked numbers, and his voice was very low and creepy. You think you can just toss me aside, he'd say. You're going to regret this. And I'd hang up, but the words would just stick with me, digging into my mind. and I went to the police and filed a report, but they said that there wasn't much they could do without proof of imminent danger. And they gave me a card for a restraining order, but I knew that Ryan wouldn't care about some piece of paper.

I bought pepper spray, started sleeping with a baseball bat by my bed, and told my mom about everything. She lived about an hour away. A retired nurse with a no-nonsense streak, and she begged me to move in with her. I said no. I wasn't going to let him chase me out of my life. I tried to carry on as normal as best I could. I went to work, I walked my dog, kept my head down, and the threats kept coming. But I got good at tuning them out and pretending that I wasn't scared.

At least until that phone call that I got. It was a Tuesday, late afternoon, and I was at my desk when my phone buzzed, a number that I didn't recognize, and I answered thinking it was a client. It was Ryan. His voice was different. It was colder, like he was. planning every word. Killing you wouldn't be a punishment

enough, he said. You need to hurt, like you made me hurt. So because you took something precious away from me, I'm going to take something away from you now. And after that, the line went dead. And I'd never known fear like that.

I grabbed my bag, left my desk without a word, and ran to my car. My mom, she was the only person he knew how to reach, the only one I'd ever mention to him. I called her as I drove like an insane person out of that parking lot. Locked the doors, I said when she picked up. Don't let anyone in.

I'm coming. She asked what was wrong, but I couldn't explain. I just told her to stay safe. And the drive was a blur. My hands were gripped to the wheel so tight my knuckles were turning white, and I kept checking my rearview mirror, half expecting to see his motorcycle tailing me. And then when I hit her street, I saw his truck. This black, dented, unmistakable thing parked just near her driveway.

I slammed on the gas, pulled in behind him, then jumped out and ran up the path, hammered on the door, my fist was pounding hard enough to rattle the frame. And I yelled at her to open up. The door swung open, and there was my mom. Calm as anything, just staring at me. What's all this noise, she asked. I just shoved my way past her, my shoulder knocking into her, and then as I rushed into the kitchen, I saw him.

Ryan, sitting at the kitchen table, his jacket slung over the chair like he belonged there. And I felt sick. He got here a minute ago, my mom said, kind of frowning at me. He said he was a friend of yours. Get out, I said, my voice breaking into a shout. Get the hell out, I screamed. He stood, very slow and deliberately raising his hands like he was innocent. I don't know what's wrong with you, he said, all confused and charming.

I just needed to make a call. But as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, he turned back, looked me dead in the eye, and winked, basically saying I could have, if I wanted to. I locked the door behind him. My hands were shaking and told Mom everything, every detail that I'd spared her before. She wanted me to stay the night, but I couldn't. I needed my own space, my own fire. I just drove home, checked every room, every window, and sat with the bat across my lap until

the sun came up. And the harassment didn't stop after that. He'd call, leave voicemails, sometimes threats, and sometimes apologies. I'd find his truck parked down the street from my apartment, empty there, but almost like a warning. I eventually got that restraining order, kept filing reports, but it was like yelling into a void. He was always one step ahead, it felt like, just out of reach, and the police were worthless. Then one day, it all just seemed to stop. There were no calls, no notes, no sightings, and I waited for the other shoe to drop, but weeks passed, and then a month, and there was nothing. And I finally felt like I could breathe again, to sleep without that stupid bat. I was at work one afternoon scrolling

through my phone on break when I saw it. A mutual friend had posted a friend. It was a friend that photo. Ryan, arm around a girl I didn't recognize smiling at some bar. She looked happy, oblivious. She reminded me of me. I stared at her face, the way he smiled at her and felt sick again. I knew what he was capable of, what he'd do when the mask slipped. And I thought about warning her, but how? He'd know it was me if I used my name. And my solution was to make a brand a new Facebook profile, a fake name, no picture, and then look her up and message her. And her page was public, full of selfies and posts about her job at a daycare. And I typed the message fast.

Be careful with Ryan. He's not who he seems. Get out while you can. And I hit send, watched it mark seen, and then logged out and deleted the account. I don't know if she listened. I don't know if she's okay. And a part of me wants to check to dig, but I stopped myself. I'm free of him, for now anyway, and I think that's enough.

I still double-checked the locks on my doors and I still glance over my shoulder whenever I walk to my car because I know he's out there and I know he doesn't forget. So this was the late summer in 1992, and I'd convince my girlfriend Sarah to join me for a hike through the wilderness area up near Mount Rainier. We've been dating for about a year, and she wasn't exactly the outdoorsy type, but she humored me. And the plan was simple. A day hike, maybe a six or seven mile round trip, through a dense, stretch of forest that I'd read about in a guidebook. We packed light, just water, a couple of sandwiches and a map, and then hit the trail just after sunrise. It started off easy, a dirt path cutting through

towering trees. The air was cool and the sky was clear and the forest was quiet except for us walking and the occasional chirp of a bird. We didn't talk much at first, just walk side by side, setting into the rhythm of it. And about an hour in, the trail got rougher. It narrowed, winding deeper into the woods where the trees glued closer together. And we crossed a small creek, stepping on slick stones to keep her feet dry and I held Sarah's hand to steady her. She laughed when she almost slipped, a quick nervous sound that we joked about afterwards. And it was a huge relief to see her start to enjoy herself. Then, around noon, we stopped for break, sitting on a fallen log to eat our sandwiches.

After lunch, the trail climbed this very gentle slope in the woods opened up a little bit with fewer trees and more underbrush. We've been walking maybe three or four hours total when Sarah started lagging behind. I slowed down, waiting for her to catch up. She gave me this kind of defiant look, like she wouldn't admit that she was tired. And I just smiled and told her that we turned back, and then seconds later, she saw it. We remember ten yards apart, me up and up. head, her trailing behind when she stopped dead. I didn't notice at first, but just kept

walking. And then I heard her voice, sharp and low, barely above a whisper. Oh my God. I turned around, afraid that I was about to see her pointing in a bear or maybe a snake or something, because she was frozen, staring off to her left with the color having drained from her face. I followed her gaze, and my jaw dropped. There, about 20 feet off the trail was a tree. It was a big one, maybe three feet thick and halfway up its trunk at around chest height, was a deer. It wasn't just any deer either. It was a full-grown buck, antlers and all, and its body was just stuck in the tree. The front half hung out one side. The front half hung out one side, head kind of hanging down, eyes glassy and just blank, while the back half stuck out the other

side, its hind legs dangling limp. And just to make this 100% clear, it wasn't hanging from a branch or caught in a fork. It was inside the tree, like it embedded in it, almost like the trunk had grown around it. I took a step closer, but Sarah grabbed my arm so tight it hurt a little. What the hell was that, she said. Her voice shaky. I didn't answer because I didn't know. The tree definitely wasn't broken in any way, and there was no splintered bark, no jagged edges where the deer's body met the trunk, and the wood looked smooth, untouched and natural like it had grown that way. But that was impossible. Trees don't grow around something that fast, and this deer wasn't some ancient skeleton. It looked fresh, barely starting to rot. There were a couple of flies buzzing around its

head, but that was it. No stench, no maggots. It was no blood, no torn flesh, nothing to suggest violence. It was just there, almost fused with the wood in a way that made exactly zero sense to me and Sarah. Sarah stayed there where she was. Her grip was tightening around my arm. I don't like this, she said. But I felt this pull, this need to figure this out. I took another step, then another, until I was close enough to touch the tree if I wanted. And something about it made my skin crawl, even as my brain kept prodding at it, trying to rationalize what I was seeing. Maybe the deer had fallen from somewhere high up and landed just right, but there were no cliffs nearby, no broken branches above, and the trunk was too solid, too intact.

I crouched down, peering up and where the deer's body met the wood. The bark flowed around it seamlessly, like the tree had molded itself to the shape of the carcass. I reached out and hesitated and then brushed my fingers against the trunk just below the deer. It felt normal. There was nothing strange until you looked up and saw that impossible thing sticking out of it. Sarah yelled my name telling me to get back, but I couldn't stop myself. I stood up and walked around to the other side. There, the deer's hindquarters hung limp, and I saw the same thing there, too.

No blood, no damage to its hide, no sign whatsoever of how it got that way. And that's when curiosity started to turn to fear. My stomach tightened, not from nausea, but from something deeper, something I still can't put into words. It wasn't just weird anymore. where it felt very wrong. The woods felt quiet, too, like everything had just stopped and started watching us. No birds or wind, just the sound of my own breathing in Sarah's quick, shallow gas behind me. I looked at her, and her eyes were wide, and her lips were pressed very tightly.

We need to go, she said. And at that point, I didn't argue. I could remove myself physically, but mentally I couldn't pull away from this. How long had had been up there? had someone or something put it there the unease crept up my spine slow at first and then all at once like a cold hand closing around my neck i thought about pictures i'd seen of animals caught in fences or traps but this wasn't that this was deliberate unnatural and the more i looked the more i felt like we weren't supposed to see it neither of us looked back but i didn't need to i could still see it just

burned into my brain. We moved in silence. Our steps quick and uneven as my heart was pounding, not from the pace, but from thoughts of what we just seen. Sarah kept her head down and I knew she felt it too, that shift from curiosity to dread, the sense that we'd stumbled on to something that we weren't built to understand. We made it back to my car in almost half the time that it took to hike out and the whole drive home we didn't say a word to each other. And when we got to her place, looked at me and her face was still pale saying we're not talking about this ever again and i agreed not because i wanted to forget but because i didn't want to upset her any more than she already was and we never did mention it not to each other and not to anyone but there are definitely times late at night that i'll see that deer in my

mind half in and half out of that tree and feel that same cold grip around my neck reminding me that was all real. I remember it was a Tuesday night, almost. I remember it was a Tuesday night almost 10 years ago now, when my phone lit up with the text message that changed my life. It was just after 9 p.m. and I was lying on the couch watching a bit of television when I got a message notification from an unknown caller. Curious, I grabbed my phone, then felt the slight rush of adrenaline when I saw who the message was from. It simply said,

Hi, Ashon. Is this still your number? It's Laura from Leeds. A few years earlier, Laura and I had dated for around six months, and while at first it was a lot of fun, it didn't last. She was beautiful, intelligent, and successful, but she was also intense, very intense. I always find passion to be very attractive. But Laura was unhealthily and rigidly fixated on self-improvement. It wasn't the healing your past traumas variety either. It was the maximizing your potential kind,

and while I often agree with things she said about self-discipline and radical, ownership, she sometimes took things way too far. I think the best example would be her reaction to me giving a homeless fella a few quid while we were out in the date. We'd both had a few drinks and it was proper freezing outside, so I gave him a few coins to get himself a cup of tea or something. Laura didn't say anything at first, but when I asked why she was giving me the cold shoulder then, she launched into some speech about how pathetic homeless people were, how they should learn to help themselves, and how I was an idiot for giving him money because he was only going to spend it on drink or drugs. I only gave him a few quid to get coffee on a cold night,

and I know she was a bit drunk, but I thought Laura exhibited a serious overreaction to what amounted to an innocent gesture of kindness. And I suppose that was the beginning of the end, and as her work schedule got busier and busier over the weeks that followed, we started to drift apart. It was her that ended things, and while I'll confess to being upset for a few days, I quickly realized that I was better off without her. I deleted her number, got on with my life, and then jumped back into the dating pool when I felt like I was ready. The lack of success turned into a major drought, and by the time Laura texted me, I hadn't been on a date in almost eight months. I remember staring at my phone screen, reading Laura's text over and

over with my thumb frozen over the keys, when suddenly I heard a voice in my head. I mean, not literally, of course, I'm not mental. I just told myself, don't do it. I know it's tempting, but don't do it, mate. Laura wasn't bad news exactly, but she'd always been a lot to handle, and I'd feel like a right wanker if I made the same bloody mistake all over again. But still, my love life was a complete non-event, and as curiosity tugged at me, I found myself drafting a reply. I typed something out and then rewrote it about four or five times until it read as neutral and nonchalant as possible. Hey, good to hear from you. What's up? It said. And her reply arrived in mere minutes. I'll be honest, she wrote. I didn't give us a

real chance the first time around. I wasn't ready for a relationship, but I am now. I think about you a lot. Those months were some of the best I've had with anyone. If you're not up for it, I get it, the offer is still on the table. I must have read it three or four times just to make sure that I wasn't making some kind of mistake. I even went back to check it actually said Laura in her original message because this didn't seem like her at all. The Laura that I knew was distant, preoccupied. Her head at work and her foot halfway out the door. This was raw, honest, a little bit vulnerable too, and it knocked me over. And I mulled over it for a minute or two and the longer I did.

did, I felt the idea winning me over more and more. You see, she wasn't wrong. The first few months with her had been phenomenal, and half my frustration came from her putting in zero effort when we had great chemistry. But now, if she was ready to put the time in, then maybe, just maybe, I owed it to myself to find out if she was for real. We swapped a few more messages, talking the whole thing out a little more, than once I was satisfied that she seemed genuine, I asked her out for what I described as a second-first date. We agreed to meet that Sunday at this new Middle Eastern place that I've been wanting to try, and since the following day was a bank holiday Monday,

we could afford to stay up late on what would normally be a school night. That Sunday, I got to the restaurant a little bit early, so I stood outside, hands shoved in my pockets just sort of watching the street. It was very early May, so I wasn't too chilly in just a shirt and jeans, and I was content to wait outside till Laura turned up. But five minutes passed and then ten, and by the time quarter past ticked by, I started thinking that she changed her mind.

I checked my phone and saw that I didn't have any text or miss calls from her. Then I felt this sort of mix of relief and annoyance wash over me as I thought, classic Laura, big promises, no delivery. But then, just as I was about to text her, she appeared, hurrying around the corner with her, her heels clicking against the pavement. And she looked stunning. A brunette when we dated, but her now sandy blonde hair was swept back, and she wore a black dress that clung to her like it was custom made. She'd always been slim. She went to the gym three times a week when we dated,

but now she looked like she could have been a fitness instructor. She looked lean and strong, like she'd been sculpted. And as she got closer, she apologized for being late and mentioned how Pilates had run over and then finished with, you'd look good. And I must have blushed at that comment, probably at the way she looked too, but her compliment finished me off. I thanked her, and she gave me a little satisfied smile, and then we walked inside the restaurant, and I kind of felt like I'd won the lottery. Dinner was even better than I'd hoped.

And their kitchen might have been halal, but their bar wasn't, and our Iranian waiter gave us such good service that we'd polished off three bottles of wine by the time the dessert menus came. Laura was different too. She laughed more. She listened when I talked, and then asked questions like she meant it. The old Laura would have been glued to her phone or trying to steer every conversation back towards work or maximizing potential. But that Sunday night, she brought up work just one time and then immediately stopped herself when she did a sort of, no, not doing that, no work talk, just us. And I like that, Laura. I liked her a lot, and, and if that was how she was approaching dating, then I was there for it.

We worked our way through half a dozen small plates, shared two mains in a dessert, and then polished off a third bottle of wine while the place cleared out. When the bill landed, it was a steep $190.90, minus the tip. But considering what an amazing time we'd had, it seemed well worth the money. Laura reached for her a bag and then paused. I've got a confession, she said. and I smiled, saying, don't tell me, the old I've forgotten my purse gag, right? And she didn't laugh and responded, no, it's not that, it's something else.

And the mood suddenly shifted. I leaned back in my chair and waited for her to speak, and she seemed to take a deep breath and then started back up. When Laura had decided that she was ready to start dating again, she tried the apps. She met a guy, he seemed great, but then after a few weeks, weeks he changed. He got jealous, controlling, and it wasn't long before she feared physical abuse. Laura explained that she ended things a few months back, but he wouldn't leave her alone, when over the previous few weeks, he'd been showing up outside her flat late at night. Sometimes I see him across the street just standing there, she said, and it's gotten worse

lately. I'm scared. I told her how sorry I was, and asked if she'd contact the police. And she had, but since the guy hadn't broken any laws yet, there was really nothing they could do. Once she'd explained, Laura hesitated and then looked at me saying, Would you come back to my place? Just for a drink, just to make sure he's not waiting. I'd feel better with you there.

And I should have said no. Even with all that wine, having firmly gone to my head, the warning voice was back, loud. her this time, yelling at me to walk away. But Laura looked genuinely shaken, so I thought it would have been real bloody mingy of me to just ditch her and go home. Plus, I'll admit that I wasn't quite ready to end the night just yet, and a few more drinks at her place sounded perfect. After I agreed, Laura gave me a relieved smile and then we called a taxi. We asked the waiter if we could wait inside for the cab,

and since we'd spent nearly 200 quid, he gave us some. leeway. About 10 minutes later, a black carrier pulled up, just a plain van with tinted passenger windows, and then as we walked outside, the driver slid the larger passenger door open with a smile. He told us that people carrier was the only free car that they had left, but promised no extra charge for the larger vehicle. I thanked him for the consideration and followed Laura into the middle row of seating before he slid the door closed behind us. We carried on chatting as the driver got the people carrier moving, and I remember how Laura leaned into me as we made small talk. Her arm brushed against mine. I let it happen and felt the familiar rush of a date having gone

well. I felt relaxed but excited at the same time, with the wine making everything soft around the edges. And then I heard it. It was a sound coming from the seat behind me, a soft rustle like someone moving. And I turned my head, but before I could see it, something snapped around my neck and then pulled so tight it bit into my skin. I grabbed at it, my fingers scrabbling, my lungs seizing up, and my vision absolutely was swimming, and then blurred, and that's when everything went dark. I woke up coughing, my throat burning, and as I tried to speak, I realized my mouth was stuffed with a rag that tasted like oil and sweat. I tried to open my eyes, but I couldn't.

A blindfold pressed against them tied so tight that it dug into my temples. I then tried to move my arms and legs, but found my wrists and ankles had been bound with plastic zip ties that cut off the circulation. I felt the panic wash over me. I thrashed and kicked, trying to scream through that gag, but a voice, very low and gravelly from what I remember, suddenly ground from behind me. Move again, and you're dead. I kept fighting, jerking my shoulders and twisting my wrists until the ties felt like

there was slicing into my skin. And then suddenly, the pressure around my throat returned. I gasped for air, but nothing filled my lungs, and then I remember seeing those white sparks in the darkness behind my blindfold, as Laura's voice suddenly cut through the background noise. Stop fighting it, Sean, she said, calm. It'll hurt less if you just let it happen. And her words hit me like a punch in the gut. My brain was stalling, refusing to connect the dots for a second before it finally hit me.

Laura, Laura was doing this to me. I stopped fighting, not because I wanted to, but because if I had any shot at surviving, I had to wait. and I had to think. I then remember slumping back into the seat, breathing hard through my nose and just sort of listening. The van rumbled on forever. Every bump jolted my spine, every turn made my stomach turn, and I tried to count the minutes to listen up for anything

that might give me a clue as to who'd taken me or where I'd been taken, but fear was absolutely scrambling my brain. My hands went numb from the ties being so tight, and the gag kept me from swallowing right, meaning spit pulled in my throat and made me gag every so often as well. Laura didn't say another word, and no one did. There was just the low hum of the engine and the outside traffic, and then the occasional sound of the man behind me clearing his throat. When the van stopped, the door next to me slid open and I suddenly felt two pairs of gloved hands wrench me from my seat.

They dragged me out, my bare feet hitting the gravel day. stabbed into my souls, and I stumbled, but they didn't let me fall as two of them, maybe three, kept on dragging me forward. The gravel turned into grass, and then I heard twigs snapping in the air changed. It felt damp and heavy. I could smell pine and dirt and a faint trace of smoke. My legs shook, but the men kept dragging me along. One of them had his thumb dug into the flesh just above my collarbone. And I think it was one of those pressure point holds I've heard about, but my God, I didn't know anything could hurt so much. I was dragged for 10, maybe 15 minutes, and then suddenly we stopped. Grass brushed my feet again, and dead silence filled the

air. There was no breeze, no birds, just the sound of my own ragged breaths. And I stood still for a few moments and then all of a sudden they began lifting me into the air. My stomach dropped as I went airborne and then I felt wood under my feet as they set me on some kind of platform. It creaked under my weight as they shoved me back against a pole, rough and splintered and tied me to it with ropes that scraped against my skin. Then came the knives. I felt cold metal sliding against my chest and I began to scream against the gag again. I thought they were going to cut my heart out or something, but then suddenly I heard the sound of fabric tearing as they cut my shirt away.

The jeans went next, and I felt a cold sting that made me flinch as a blade nick my thigh. They didn't stop until I was completely naked, and I could feel the night air on almost every inch of my skin. Then I started to hear the sound of something clacking below me. It sounded like wood, shifting and stacking. heavy objects hitting the ground as men grunted and strained. After that, my gag was pulled out, and the blindfold was removed. My eyes watered, adjusting to the bright light of flaming torches, and that's when I saw

where I was. My knees buckled. I was in some kind of clearing, one that looked as if it were deep in the forest, and to my absolute horrified disbelief, I saw I was surrounded by a crue. proud of figures and hooded robes. Faces were hidden behind mass, smooth and featureless like these blank slates, and some held torches, the flames spitting and crackling as they cast jagged shadows across the trees. The men beneath me, the ones I've been dragged by, appeared to be wearing tactical gear. They wore black uniforms, masks, and had guns holstered on their hips as they stacked wood under the platform.

suddenly one of them appeared holding a hefty-looking jerry can he walked up to the stack of wood beneath me tipped it up and then started pouring petrol all over it it soaked the wood as the sharp chemical stench hit my nose almost immediately another can followed and then a third that disgusting smelling liquid glugging out as it soaked the pile of logs and sticks and it was like some waking nightmare that i was in I tried to shout, but my voice cracked and was barely audible. I could hardly get any words out, but still I begged them to stop as the fumes started to irritate my nose and face and throat. The men in black uniforms didn't even look up. They just carried on with what they were doing.

I pulled at the ropes, the pole digging into my back, but I couldn't move. The petrol kept flowing, the pile beneath me growing dark and slick, and the smell so thick in the air that I could have. actually taste it. A figure stepped forward from the crowd holding one of those flaming torches above their head. The others silently parted, watching reverently as the figure advanced. Their robes in the way they moved gave the impression that they were gliding towards me. They wore a hood like the rest, but their mask was different. It was dark, almost slate-colored, but unlike the others, it was decorated with strange pale symbols I didn't recognize. And just after stepping away from

the crowd, he stopped, turned, and then began to address them in a language I didn't understand. And I'm not daft either. I know the likes of French, Spanish, or German when I hear them, and I'm a big fan of Korean horror and old Hong Kong action movies. I'm no language expert, but I've got a good ear for them, and this sounded like nothing I've ever heard before. The words rolled out, sharp and rhythmic, and every so often the crowd responded in short, barking chants that echoed through the trees. And once they'd finished speaking, the masked figure turned to me, then raised the flaming torch high above their head. The flame was dancing, and then from about ten feet away, they started walking towards me. At eight feet, the crowds chanting

grew louder and louder as I thrashed harder. The ropes were tearing at my wrist, making them slick and sore with these bloody abrasions that were forming, and at six feet, I could feel the heat of the torch brushing on my skin. I screamed, a raw animal sound as I squirmed against the wooden pole. At four feet, the flames filled my vision as the crowd began howling, and I completely lost it. I screamed. I sobbed and I begged, my words descending into just some frantic gibberish as snot and tears were streaming down my face. I did and said things that I didn't even know I was capable of, promised things I could never deliver, verbally debasing myself in ways I'll never forgive myself for. I prayed they'd listen to me. I begged them to see reason, but the crowd's

chanting only got louder and louder until I could barely hear myself scream. I watched in horror as the masked figure closed the gap between us, gradually lowering the torch until it was just a meter or so from the petrol's soaked pyre. Another few seconds and I'd be engulfed in flames, choking on smoke, feeling my skin begin to blister and blacken. Yet, just as it looked like the figure was going to drop the torch into that pyre, they raised it back up into the air again, and the crowd, behind them, went quiet. I froze, staring silently at the flaming torch as the figure took a few steps backwards. Then, after a few seconds of silence, they let it fall to the ground,

pulled up their robes slightly, and then stamped out the flames. with the soul of a long black boot. My head spun as the embers hissed into nothingness. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think properly. I wanted to be relieved, but I couldn't. Because I might not have avoided a fiery fate, merely delayed it. But the next thing I know, one of the tactical guys climbed up onto the platform,

his boots thumping on the wood behind me. He slipped the blindfold back over my eyes, stuffed the gag back into my mouth, and then cut the ropes which bound me to the pole. My arms dropped, useless and numb from the full-body terror I was experiencing, and then I was dragged from the platform. My legs wouldn't hold me as I touched the ground. I stumbled and fell, then the men hauled me up. I took ages before my legs could hold my weight again,

but I think I only walked for about four or five minutes before I once again heard the sound of a van door sliding open. They bound my wrists and ankles, threw me in, and then after the door slammed behind me, the van got moving. I just remember being curled up and shivering. All the hope having drained out of me, I was convinced that I was going to die, but there was no chance of escape. So you can imagine the disbelief I felt when they suddenly stopped the van, cut the bindings on my ankles, and then pulled me onto the road. I hit the ground, dirt and rock scraping my knees, and then heard the, the sound of the van peeling away. I was convinced someone else was about to grab me and haul me

to my feet, but after a few moments of complete silence, I pulled up my blindfold, and I saw I was alone. I was on a dirt road in what looked like the middle of nowhere, no houses, no cars, just empty fields all around me. My wrists were still zip tied, and I was still completely naked, but I could walk. I got to my feet. Every joint screaming and started on down the road. I'd never been so cold in my entire life, and it was like the wind was cutting through me, but I kept moving, one step, then another, slowly but surely, praying that I wouldn't die of hypothermia before I found help.

My feet were raw, bleeding from those rocks and cuts when I finally spotted a cottage in the distance. It was a quaint little place with a thatched roof, like something you might see on a postcard, But then there was me, staggering up the path, completely naked. It was absolutely surreal. I staggered to the door and pounded on it with weak but desperate fists. A middle-aged woman in a bathrobe answered, and the second she laid eyes on me, she started screaming like a freaking banshee. Her husband charged up behind her, a baseball bat in his hands, and he was about to start

beating the absolute crap out of me when he saw the box. bindings on my wrists and stopped. I'll never forget the look on his face, the way his eyes went all wide when he realized what he was looking at. After he froze, he just muttered Jesus Christ and then ran back inside to grab something I could cover myself up with. They brought me a blanket, made me a cup of tea, and then let me take a nice long shower while they called the police. The hot water stung my wrists and my ankles and the soles of my feet and I just stood there, shaking, watching blood and dirt swirl down that drain and just wincing from the pain as I washed myself. Just before the police got there, the nice couple gave me some spare clothes to wear. It was only

a baggy pair of joggers and a faded t-shirt, but it meant the world to me. And after that, I sat in their kitchen waiting for the police as the couple whispered in the next room. When the lone officer arrived, I thanked the couple for all their help, and we then walked to his patrol car. and after taking a seat in the back, I told him everything. The dinner, the van, the forest, the hooded figures. He wrote it down and then asked in a very flat tone, How much did you have to drink tonight? And I told him we drank three bottles, split pretty evenly.

I was drunk, but I wasn't smashed, and I most certainly hadn't blacked out either. He didn't argue, but I could tell that he didn't buy it. They tracked down Laura and the taxi driver, but their stories didn't match. They claimed that I'd been blind drunk, demanded that they stopped the taxi so I could get out to vomit,

and then after doing so, I'd walked off into the dark field never to return. They had a receipt from the restaurant, timestamps, and everything, and Laura's phone went dead after that. No answers, no trace of her. And then after a while, the police seemed to just give up on everything,

as worthless as the UK police usually are. They said there wasn't enough evidence that they couldn't trace this Laura girl that I'd got on a date with. So until I remember her address or until I remembered where I'd been taken, there was simply nothing that I could do to further their investigation. The grazes on my wrist healed, but the nightmares did not. I tried to do my own research on what had happened for a while, but it took a serious toll on my mental health. I went down many, many rabbit holes pertaining to Wiccan and occult practices, but found nothing like that. the mass that I'd seen or the language I'd heard. I talked to some of the users even on R slash conspiracy and X even posted about it, but most people didn't believe me, and one user

even called me a plant. In the end, I stopped trying to make sense of anything, and in a kind of great big circle found my way back to the heal-your-trauma self-help genre that Laura had so staunchly avoided. I tried reading all the books I could get my hands on, even did an online course about getting rid of the night terrors, but nothing really helped. I still see that torch every night, feel the heat, hear the chance, and I haven't dated since then and my trust issues have extended into even the simplest of everyday interactions. Sometimes I'll be chatting with someone, someone I don't know personally, and I'll stop and think, was it you? Were you there? Sometimes when things get really bad, I think about the person with that torch,

the one who, for whatever reason, chose not to light the fire underneath me. And sometimes I feel like I owe them my life, then in the grand scheme of things they're the best friend I'd ever had. I swing between intense gratitude and hating them with every fiber of my being, not because I wish that they'd gone through with it, but because they left me stuck here, half alive, with a story that hardly anyone believes. A few years back, me and a few years back, me and a few very close friends went on a camping trip.

We've been planning it for literally like a year and we were super, excited to leave behind the hustle and bustle of the big city and immerse ourselves in the raw beauty of nature. And there were five of us, myself, Rachel, a 23-year-old female, Rob, Jenna, Jay, and Dave. And having spent all of our high school years together, we were a close-knit group, and for me personally, the trip seemed like it was going to be the highlight of our year. But I don't think I've ever been more wrong. Our packs were hanging low with the weight of our supplies, but our spirits were high as we set out from the trailhead. The weather was fine and we moved at a steady pace as the trail wound through the woods, climbing pretty gently at first and then

dripping into these shallow ravines before rising back up again. We laughed and joked as we went and it felt good to be out there, away from the screens and schedules with nothing but each other and the promise of a campfire cook out ahead. By late afternoon, we've covered a good distance and since we weren't planning on setting up camp for another couple of hours, we decided to stop for a break and a small clearing nestled beneath this low rise. And the spot felt sheltered, almost cozy, so we dropped our packs and sprawled out on the ground, pulling out sandwiches and water bottles. Apart from the rustle of leaves and the occasional call of a distant bird, the forest was really quiet and was like this moment of stillness that made me feel like we were in a special place and at a special time.

But it turns out that I was right, just for all the wrong reasons. And after a few minutes, Dave stood up, brushed off his jeans, and then walked off into this corner of trees after saying that he had to take a leak. We barely glanced his way, too busy eating and stretching out our sore muscles. Now the seconds ticked by, and we talked a little among ourselves until this sudden and terrible sound just absolutely shattered the calm. It was a scream, raw and gutteral, and it ripped through the air like a chainsaw on our ears. It was Dave, and it wasn't just a cry of surprise or pain. It was something very primal, something that reached into the deepest part of your brain and flipped every switch to absolute panic.

We all scrambled to our feet and ran toward the sound, crashing through the brush as branches were snagging on our clothes, and we found Dave 30-year-old. yards away, crumpled on the ground, hands clawing at his leg. Clamped around it was an old bear trap. Its rusted jaws snapped shut around his ankle. His screams had turned to gas and his face was pale and slick with sweat as he writhed in agony. Blood pulled beneath his leg, soaking into the dirt and the sight of the jagged metal biting into his flesh made my stomach absolutely turn. Jenna dropped to her knees beside him, saying, oh God, oh God, with her hands flat and tremblingly she didn't know what to do with him. And Rob swore under his breath, just pacing in a tight circle

while Jay just stood frozen, staring at it. And I forced myself to look closer. And this trap looked ancient, with this old rusted chain anchored to a stake buried deep in the ground, and it must have been abandoned years ago, just left to rot there, until Dave's foot had found it. All of a sudden, Jay snapped out of his daze and knelt down beside Jenna. I've seen this before, he said. Old traps like this, there's a release mechanism. You just need to find it. And he ran his hand along the trap's edges.

His fingers seemed to be trembling as Dave tried to stifle his wimper's, and his breathing was coming these short, sharp bursts by then, and his blood was staining Jay's hands as he worked. And after what felt like an eternity, Jay finally. found it. A rusted lever hidden beneath a layer of dirt. Hold him steady, he told us. Rob and I grabbed Dave's shoulders, pinning him down as he thrashed. Jenna gripped his hand, saying some reassurances that I'm not sure he could even hear, and Jay pressed down on the lever with both hands. The trap resisted for a moment and then it gave way, its jaws then sprang

apart, and Dave screamed again as the pressure released, his leg free, but bowed. badly hurt. I looked and quickly wished that I hadn't. The flesh was torn wide open and the bone was visible beneath the mesh of mangled meat. We carried Dave back to the clearing as his screams just went down to whimpers. And Jenna dug through her pack and pulled out a first aid kit, wrapping his legs and bandages that soaked through almost instantly. Rob pulled out a pistol from his bag. He said he had it just in case. He held it low, scanning. the trees as we planned her next move. The campsite plan was quickly abandoned, obviously. Dave needed a hospital and we were less than the day's hike from the car. We left most of our gear behind,

taking only what we needed to move fast and then headed out. Jay and I supported Dave with his arms slung over our shoulders. Jenna carried the first aid kit and Dave took point with a gun as he led us back along the trail. The woods felt very different now. The piece was replaced by absolute terror. It had been transformed from this paradise into a living hell so fast that it was making my head spin. We made decent progress at first, with the adrenaline pushing us forward, and Dave was getting paler, his head lolling against my shoulder as he begged us to slow down, and the bandages were just completely covered in blood. It dripped under the trail behind us, leaving a trail of its own. And we knew it was hurting him, but we had no choice but to keep going. And then just when we thought

that things could not get any worse. They did. We were halfway to the car when it happened. This sharp crack split the air, and something whizzed past my head, close enough that I felt the rush of it. It was a gunshot, and it wasn't Rob.

Someone yelled out something as we hit the ground, dragging Dave behind a fallen log. Another shot rang out, and I swear it splintered the bark, above us before Rob started to fire back randomly towards what the sound had come from. He yelled at us to run, waving us on, so Jay and I hauled Dave up, stumbling as we move with Jenna keeping close behind. Rob kept shooting, trying to cover us as we ran. He was so brave, but I'll never forget how wide-eyed and terrified he looked as he kept peeking out from behind a tree firing. The woods completely erupted

into chaos. Shots came sporadically. Some felt like they were close, some distance. The echoes were bouncing off the trees until we couldn't tell where anything was coming from anymore. We ran blindly. Branches were whipping us in the face as we were almost tripping with every step. David lost a lot of blood so far, but he must have been surging with the adrenaline, hopping like a man possessed as we ran alongside him to give him balance. Rob caught up, saying keep going, he was gasping as he was reloading another magazine. My lungs burned and my leg screamed, but fear kept me moving, the trees thinning out as we neared the trailhead.

I could see the faint outline of the car when the final shot cracked behind us, and then there was silence. We didn't stop to check and we didn't look back. We reached the car, piling Dave into the back seat as his blood smeared all over the inside and Jenna climbed in beside him, pressing fresh bandages to his leg. leg while Jay took the wheel. Rob kept his pistol ready, scanning the tree line as I slammed the passenger door shut. Our engine turned on and we peeled out of there. The road twisting through the forest as Dave groaned and was still alive, but it felt like barely. Sell signal was

non-existent, so we aimed for the nearest town 30 miles away, and that drive was just a blur. We talked to Dave to try and keep him awake, and he stayed responsive, but there was a still a little voice in my head that I had to actively silence that kept telling me that he was going to die. We reached the hospital just after nightfall, screeching into the emergency room as doctors and nurses swarmed us. They took David away on a stretcher before we collapsed in the waiting room, exhausted and shaken, our clothes completely stained with blood and dirt. An hours later, a doctor came out. Dave wasn't going to die, she said, but his leg was a complete mess. He'd need surgery, maybe more than one, and there was a chance that he might never walk the same again.

The police came next, two officers and uniforms who took our statements. We told them everything, from the trap to the gunfire, and they listened, making notes and then asked about the shooter, but we had nothing to offer. We didn't see him at all, let alone his face, and we hadn't interacted with anyone either, so it wasn't like we could point the cops in the right direction of someone we'd pissed off. someone had just come out of nowhere and started shooting the cops promised to investigate to check the woods for evidence but their tone didn't suggest they'd be particularly helpful they said they'd look into it and dave's mom and dad called them many more times to ask for updates but the investigation never went anywhere and the shooter's identity remains a mystery but we never went back into those woods obviously the stuff that we left behind there, like a little monument to the day that our adventure turned into a living nightmare.

Dave recovered, and although he has a nasty scar, his rehabilitation went really well, and now you'd never guess that he almost lost his leg one time. We tried to talk about it a couple of times, late at night over some drinks, and the words always just left us, and the questions kind of just lingered. Who set the trap, and who fired those shots. But since we knew that we'd never get any answers to any of that, it's just sort of felt like speculating. It felt pointless. And none of us have ever really hikes since then either. The woods just don't feel inviting anymore, and the sound of Dave's screams still echo in my head sometimes. We survived, but something broke that day that won't heal like David's

leg did, and I know for certain that he feels exactly the same way. Last year, I took a trip into the MSD wilderness here in Florida, which is way out in the Everglades. It was late July, and I've been hiking for hours alone with my thoughts. I'd done a bunch of hikes like that before, and it was my way of unplugging. Then, after a while, I began to hear something. It started as a low hum somewhere off to my left, like the drone of a distant lawnmower. Insects are obviously very common out there, but what I'd heard that day was different. I stopped trying to place it, and the sound grew.

the steady thrum that felt like it was vibrating in my chest. I looked around the trees and the bushes and the empty sky, but there was just the noise, getting louder and louder as it got closer and closer, until eventually it felt like it was right on top of me. Suddenly, I saw it. It was a beetle, one that looked as big as a football, as it broke from the tree line and then started flying in circles above my head.

I remember freezing on the spot, moving my neck around as I stared at it and how the chattery buzzing noise had made sounded like a hornets, only way deeper and way creepier. And I'd seen plenty of crazy-looking bugs in my years hiking, gnarly-looking stag beetles and cicadas, and even those nasty-ass giant horseflies whose bites hurt like hell, but nothing like that beetle thing. his body looked like a very dark green with a slight sheen to it and it was segmented and hard-looking too with hooked legs that dangled beneath it it looked like it shouldn't have been able to fly not at that size yet there it was circling me ten feet up i wasn't scared not yet i was surprised but i dealt with wildlife before bears and snakes and even mountain lines from time to time weird as it was this was just a bug right nothing i couldn't handle with some spray in the bottom of my boot i adjusted my pack and started walking again figuring that it had buzzed off but it didn't instead the sound shifted dropping lower and then when i glanced up i saw the beetle was descending i came down fast stopped a foot from my face wing still pounding the air as its eyes locked on the mine there were huge black glossy orbs that took up half its head

and somehow they scared the crap out of me. They weren't like any insect I'd ever seen before. These were smooth, deep, and wet-looking, like pools of ink, and they watched me. Not just reactively, not just instinctually. There was something intelligent behind them, something that knew that I was there. Even in the floor to heat, my blood turned to ice, and I couldn't move. I couldn't blink. and for what felt like minutes but was probably only seconds the beetle hovered in front of me

and then with a flick of its wings it just darts away and vanished into the trees i stood there my heart was pounding in my chest and i was sweating my hands shook as i wiped my face and tried to shake the image of those eyes i told myself it was nothing to worry about and kept moving but the hike didn't feel relaxing anymore i didn't hear the buzzing again but i couldn't stop listening for it and by late afternoon I found a spot to camp. I set up my hammock, pulled some food from my pack, and tried to eat, and I should have been hungry by then, but I had no appetite. My mind kept replaying the beetle, its eyes and the way it looked at me, and I crawled into my hammock early, hoping a nap might reset me, but it didn't. The dreams came fast. I was back on the trail,

but it was dark, and the buzzing was everywhere. Above me, behind me, inside my head, I couldn't see the beetle, but I knew that it was there. And then its eyes appeared, floating in the darkness even bigger than before. They were unblinking and endless, pulling me in. And as I started to drown in them, I grasped at my throat. I woke up gasping and almost fell out of my hammock. The darkness was buzzing with the night song of the Everglades, and I just laid there, listening intently until the sun finally rose.

As soon as there was enough light, I packed up fast. The plan had been to stay another day and loop back through a different trail, but I needed out. The hike back to my car was six miles, and I set a brutal pace, barely even stopping to drink. On the whole way, I kept my head on a swivel, ears straining. My legs were burning, and my pack was digging into my shoulders, but I didn't slow down. And everything just sounded like wings to me at that point. The parking lot came into view around noon, and my beaten-up sedan was, the only car there. I threw my gear in the trunk and locked the doors before I even caught my breath.

The drive home was just absolutely insane. Two hours of winding roads, my hands white-knuckled on the wheel, and I just kept checking the rear-view mirror half expecting to see that beetle flying and staring at me behind me. I knew how irrational that was. I just couldn't stop myself. And when I got home, I dumped my pack in the garage and went straight to the shower, letting the hot water or blast away the sweat and dirt, I told myself I was overreacting, that I was experiencing some kind of late-onset entomophobia, which is the fear of insects. And although that beetle had seemed like it was big as a goddamn football, it was probably much smaller. But that night, lying in bed, I kept seeing those eyes, black and bottomless, knowing almost. I got up and

grabbed my laptop and started searching. Big beetles, wilderness insects, anything that that matched what I'd seen, but nothing fit. The closest were some oversized species from South America, but that didn't have those eyes, that same presence. Days passed and then weeks, and I didn't say a word to anyone about it. Not my buddies who hike, not my nerdy sister who might actually want to help. I was scared that they'd think that I was crazy. And I just stopped hiking there altogether. The gear's still in the garage, just gathering dust. I stick to the city now. The The only bugs are cockroaches, and the only buzzing is traffic. And I never thought that I'd ever say this in a million years, but now I actually feel safer here.

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